The Cold the Dark and the Silence
by Incredibly Cold
Summary: Sherlock is finally back after three years and things seem pretty normal. That is until a new 'fan' comes along. Sherlock has to find the new genius serial killer before he goes too far.
1. A New Case

It was cold out, very cold. The rain was falling fast and hard outside the window, making such a terrible racket hitting the glass that Sherlock thought he might break it so that it would stop. He couldn't do that though, it would make John upset. Sometimes he wished that the doctor didn't care about stuff like that, but then again it was what made him so wonderfully him. He instead sat down in his chair with the laptop that he was borrowing without permission to read the blog that had become so very popular. It still brought in a lot of business, even after his faked suicide. Some people seemed to think that his return proved something about him being the genius everyone had originally thought. They were really very annoying in his opinion, but John, ever the voice of reason, insisted that he take some cases. They needed the money and giving him something to do aside from watching television (an activity he was now banned from doing at their own home after the time he threw it out the window) was top priority.

Three years had been a long wait, and it was kind of nice to be back home. Moriarty was dead now and since his gunmen knew it they didn't bother to kill him or his friends. It was slower work without the consulting criminal to give him cases, but it was better that way. Who knows what would happen if he hadn't died on that roof? He might have killed John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson anyway just for the hell of it. No loose ends that way. He must have really hated loose ends, the reporter had been killed not a week after Sherlock Holmes had been pronounced dead. No one cared or noticed that there was a reason for it. Just another murder.

Speaking of murder, here came a police car, parking in front of the flat. Another case, good. Must be a serial killer if Lestrade wanted him. Funny, he hadn't seen anything in the newspapers or anywhere at all really. Maybe it wasn't in London at all, or perhaps the killer was clever when it came to hiding the bodies. Either way, a case was a case and if there was a serial killer than he would take it in a heartbeat. They didn't come up often, and who could ask for something more exciting. He stood, setting the computer down on the table and pulling on his coat and scarf. Maybe he should send a text to John, his flatmate was out doing the shopping. Well… Why bother him until he knew it was worth taking? Later.

Lestrade stopped in the door way, looking at him like he wasn't sure he should enter before stepping inside. He always did that, even after three years. It was better than barging he supposed, but still completely unnecessary. Sherlock looked him over, taking in all the clues before speaking. "There's been a murder, or several actually. The bodies were found at a construction site within a matter of hours, none have yet been identified. It must look like a difficult one too if you came to me." He stepped forward, taking the folder which he knew contained the current facts about the investigation.

"How do you always do that?" Lestrade didn't look offended, though there was certainly some annoyance there. People didn't like being transparent, even if it were only to him. Well it did save everyone time if he just got down to business, why wait for them to make their point if he already knew what it was?

"Dust in your hair. It's made up of plaster and wood shavings, and isn't on any other part of you which means you were wearing a suit to keep the crime scene clean. A hassle you wouldn't deal with for anything but a murder. It must have just happened or I would already know about it, same with if they had been identified. You wouldn't bother coming to me for one person. No matter how hard the case is, you would at least try to figure it out before that. Did I miss anything?" He really only asked out of courtesy, he knew for a fact that he hadn't. The consulting detective's face remained expressionless as his icy blue eyes looked over the case file.

The number of bodies was unknown, as well as whose they were. Well he had guessed part of it at least. They had been chopped up into pieces, not entirely unusual when hiding the bodies really, except for that the pieces were all very small, none bigger than a two inch cube. There were no traces of tattoos, moles, fingerprints, or any mark that would help identify the bodies. The heads were entirely gone, another wise precaution. Faces were recognizable. They had been found earlier this morning at a construction site when the workers were putting up drywall and noticed something inside of it.

"So?" a voice interrupted his thought process. "Will you take the case?"

Sherlock sighed loudly. "Yes I'll take the case detective inspector Lestrade. Take me to the crime scene right now, it's not like I was in the middle of anything." He stormed out the door.

"What were you in the middle of?" The voice behind him sounded testy but he shouted back at him anyway.

"Thinking!"

Well, they wanted him, they could have him. He wasn't going to be courteous, if they wanted that they could find someone else, like John. Oh yeah, he needed to text him, he remembered, pulling out his phone.

_Going to a crime scene with Lestrade. The file is on the table, read it when you get back and meet me there._

_-SH_

That's one more thing taken care of, now time to solve this thing.


	2. A Missing Piece

John felt his phone vibrate in the back pocket of his trousers. Must be Sherlock, he guessed, pulling it out.

_Going to a crime scene with Lestrade. The file is on the table, read it when you get back and meet me there._

_-SH_

It was weird having Sherlock back after those three years. It had felt like so long since he had seen his best friend jump off that rooftop. He still didn't know how he had done it, the only response he got when he asked was "Isn't it obvious?" He had missed the way he would do things like that, acting like he should know stuff that no one could possibly figure out. It was annoying as hell, but he had missed it.

Well, better get to the flat and read that file, Sherlock would be getting impatient, and no one wanted an impatient Sherlock. Even if he was a genius, he still acted like a child. The army doctor payed for the groceries and walked back, getting a cab in this traffic would thane much longer.

After he finished putting away everything urgent, he picked up the folder and jogged down the stairs and out the door, hailing down a taxi and getting inside. He found the address and gave it to the driver, reading the rest of it as he took him there. It was a nasty case, most likely the work of a serial killer. No recognizable marks meant that the killer was smart, he probably burnt them off with sue form of acid. Of course the mutilation of the bodies meant that no one knew the cause of death, but John felt himself hoping that they hadn't been alive when the killer started chopping. That would be a terrible way to go.

He didn't have much time to dwell on it as the cab came to a stop in front of an unfinished building under construction. He payed the driver and went inside, putting on the ridiculous blue suit he had to wear so he wouldn't contaminate the evidence. John followed the bustling people to where the sheets of drywall were laying, some were now just dust beside the large area where the chunks of human had been layer out after being carefully picked out of the sheets. A girl with a face mask, safety goggles, and gloves was still working on getting the pieces out as he approached.

"So, what do you think?" He asked, coming to a stop beside his taller friend.

"He did a good job, there's almost nothing to gather from this."

"Almost meaning that you found something?"

"Well no, not really. This house is in a busy area with plenty of witnesses, and no one saw him bringing in a body, which means he must have brought them here inside of the drywall and replaced what was already here. He would have to blend in with the other workers, unless he had someone else do it for him, which isn't likely. Serial killers tend not to be social enough to convince someone to help them dispose of evidence."

"Oh not really anything at all except these very important facts." John shook his head. "You know, being humble doesn't suit you."

"I wasn't-"

"You were trying and that's bad enough." He walked back to the door, taking off the booties and everything and going outside, where Sherlock was already waiting for him. The bastard didn't have to wear any of those stupid evidence protection suits, and always got out first.

"I wasn't trying to be humble John." Oh god he was like a five year old sometimes.

"Fine, whatever you say. Are we going to the flat or do you want to eat out?"

The face he got from that let him know that this wasn't going to be an easy night. "Who said I was hungry?"

"No one did Sherlock, forgive me for thinking that you might want dinner at dinnertime. I don't know what I was thinking, the idea was completely absurd." He groaned. "Now which do you want? I heard your stomach growling in there so don't even try that with me."

Sherlock only looked at him strangely before getting into a cab, where John followed him. "You know you _could_ answer. Make things easy for once in your life." It came out harsher than he intended, but his friend only shrugged.

"Easy is boring."

"Well you need to tell the cabbie where we're going."

"He already knows."

Damn that cocky little bastard always trying to be cool. He could be so annoying sometimes. "Of course he does."

They came to a stop at some boring cafe whose name John didn't bother to read. He ordered a sandwich and tea, deciding it was a better choice that coffee. Sherlock got the same and they sat in silence for a while, waiting for their food." "You know Sherlock, you don't have to take the case."

"Who said I didn't want the case?"

"No one, but something about it is bothering you, I can tell. What's wrong with it?"

Sherlock sighed. "Well it's just that if the killer is so smart then why did they let the bodies be found? Do they want to get caught?"

"Well maybe they don't want to kill, maybe someone is making them do it." It was a long shot, but worth a try.

"No, that's not it. If they didn't want to do it then they wouldn't destroy the bodies like that. They're enjoying this." Well that was a sickening thought, who would enjoy something like that?

"Well maybe we should stay away from them."

"So he can kill more people? No, they'll keep going if no one stops them, and god knows Anderson isn't going to do it."

Well he did have a point there. Still, this case made him feel a little uneasy. What if the killer came after Sherlock?

* * *

It was getting dark when they came home. When they entered the flat a terrible smell met their noses. Oh god, had he forgotten to put the meat away? He flipped a lightswitch and almost screamed at what he saw.

There sitting on the coffee table was a human head. It's eyes were wide open staring vacantly at the doorway, and it's mouth was sewn up into a horrible smile. A single sentence was cut into the forehead.

_Come and get me._


	3. Thomas McAllister

_**Hey I forgot to do a disclaimer. Consider Sherlock disclaimed, I own none of it.**_

* * *

The police were swarming around the flat, making it hard to focus on anything at all. The killer had brought the head here, that was bold. He doubted that they would find any fingerprints on it, the killer was far too smart for that. But why bring it here? Was it a challenge? They wanted Sherlock to try and find them, but why? Did they think they were smarter than him?

The head had been identified as belonging to one Thomas McAllister, the owner of a small coffee shop on the edge of London. He wasn't special in any way at all really, nothing remarkable about him. He hadn't done anything special in all his life that would make him an obvious choice for murder. There had to be a reason it was him, just as there was a point to letting the bodies be found. If he was able to soak them in acid and burn away all recognizeable marks then why not disole the bodies entirely? This killer thought out every detail and he wouldn't have made this pointless.

Well there was only one way to find out more about him, it was time to search the shop and his house. Sherlock pulled John aside, telling him to follow him as he left. They decided to walk. They might as well kill time, it wasn't as if either would be sleeping tonight anyway. Not after someone like that had been able to get inside their flat so easily.

Neither chose to speak for a long time, both being too busy with the thoughts about this whirling through their heads.

"Sherlock?" John's voice finally broke the silence that had been holding out for the past mile or so.

"What is it?"

"This… This person is dangerous." It was a simple statement, more of an observation than anything, but there was fear in his friend's voice. They continued to walk in silence for a minute before Sherlock answered.

"Yes."

"Sherlock, don't let them get close like Moriarty did. I don't know how you survived last time, but this guy is… He's brutal. He might not let you commit a fake suicide, he might make sure he does a clean job of it himself."

"John."

"No, don't say anything. Stay away from this one, please. I'm not sure I could do the whole you being dead thing again."

At times Sherlock forgot that John had believed him to be dead all those years, and when he remembered it always surprised him. He studied his friend's expression carefully. He looked miserable at the possibility of it happening again, and it weighed him down with guilt. He knew that there had been no choice, but he had never told John everything about what happened on that rooftop. He was Sherlock Holmes, he was a robot. He couldn't afford to have a heart, it would only put people in danger again. So instead of saying something he just nodded and trudged on, not speaking until they reached the shop, which was closed.

Well he had been expecting that, why would it be open if the owner was dead? He pulled a hairpin from his pocket and stooped to unlock the door, only taking a few seconds before there was a click and the door swung open.

"You know that's illegal, right?"

He shrugged with a smile. "They come to me for help so I'll help, but they have to let me do it my way if they want me to find anything." It required no response, and he stepped inside, looking around.

It was a small room, five square tables and a taller bar next to the window. A circle of armchairs sat in the far corner opposite the counter, which Sherlock made a beeline was soon on the other side of the counter, examining all of the machines and containers as though they might hold some clue. Finally he stopped, tapping one of them. John had to crane his neck to see what he was pointing out and looked slightly put off when he found that it was an air freshener. One of the ones that sprayed when someone walked by.

"An air freshener? Sherlock, what does that have to do with anything?"

"An air freshener John, doesn't that seem suspicious to you?" Really he didn't understand how people didn't get it sometimes. Of all things to have here, this was entirely unnecessary.

"Not really, plenty of people have them. Why would that be weird?"

"John this is a coffee shop! You don't need an air freshener in a coffee shop. Plus, it isn't doing anything and I've walked past it plenty for it to go off. This isn't quite right." He picked it up carefully, opening the back compartment. Inside was a little canister that had clearly been tampered with. He smelled it, immediately pulling away as he recognized the smell. Chloroform.

Using chloroform as an aerosol, he had to admit that it was genius. Much less risky than a rag, and if the killer wasn't very strong (something he highly suspected, after all the strong were more prone to shows of power rather than cunning) then it would make things much less complicated. But why him? Maybe there really wasn't a reason, but rather a message he had left...

Air freshener. They had known he would notice it, but what would he connect?

Air

The vents.

Sherlock jumped onto the counter, fiddling with the screws holding the grate to the wall. He needed a screwdriver. What if...He reached up, pushing back one of the ceiling tiles and groping around to find what he was searching for. And there it was, wrapped in a plastic bag. A screwdriver. He doubted that it was a trap, they wouldn't want him dead, not yet.

He removed the grate carefully, reaching inside to pull out a slip of paper that had been taped to the inside of the air duct. Well that had been easy, but a note? wasn't that a little childish? He had been expecting more body parts, not a piece of paper. He put everything back carefully and climbed off the counter.

John looked annoyed, he must have said something while Sherlock wasn't paying attention. Oh well, there were more important things, like the contents of this note.

He unfolded it hurriedly, reading the words three times to make sure he had understood them.

_Regent park, open air theater_

* * *

**_Okay, so I'm thinking about doing the next chapter from the killer's point of view, but I want to know what you think so please review._**


	4. Regent's Park

**_So this took a ridiculous amount of time to make. A problem which might have been solved if anyone had actually reviewed like I asked._**

* * *

Sherlock had gotten a cab, running too fast for John to catch up with him, which of course left him alone in the back seat. He liked John's company but the silence was not unwelcome, it gave him time to think. Why tell him where to go? Was there something else there? Another head maybe. Unless of course they were going to be there, as their meeting was inevitable. All this risk to get his attention, he wasn't going to sit by idly and watch. Maybe it was some kind of trap though, perhaps the real reason for all of this was to eliminate the threat and they were just going to kill him. He doubted that was the case, where was the fun of killing him right off? Fun must be what he was after, it was the same as Moriarty, a genius trying for a bit of entertainment. So more likely this was another clue, something more important. Still, he had to consider all possibilities, just in case. It was why he had taken John's gun, reasonable precaution.

He got out of the cab, sprinting to the open air theater where he didn't at first see the person sitting deep in the shadows and wearing all black. He could see from here that their hood was up and it seemed that they were fairly small, a woman or a small man. He walked down the steps slowly, watching for some sort of reaction. He wasn't surprised to find that he didn't get one, just a still figure with their back to him. He came to a stop at the row that the person was sitting in, waiting for them to turn or acknowledge his presence in any way.

"You got my note."

The voice was clearly male, though higher than he would have imagined. It was quiet too, little more than a whisper and a puff of steam in the cold air. "I did."

The man turned to face him "And?"

"And I came here."

"Without your little army doctor to protect you?"

"Yes."

"That was brave." His hood tilted down as his eyes left Sherlock's face and looked toward his belt. "But you did get the gun I imagine?"

"Of course."

"Reasonable precaution I suppose. But you do know I'm not going to kill you, right? That would be a terrible waste of a great genius."

Sherlock was quickly becoming irritated by the lack of light that hid the other man's face from him. "And I won't kill you either, it would be a waste of a good mystery."

"I'm a mystery?" He sounded flattered. "I figured you had already seen right through me." The smaller man leaned forward into the light, revealing a long thin face, still rounded in his youth. It was ghostly white, maybe he didn't spend any time in the sun but he guessed it was more than that, this wasn't any normal shade of pale. His eyes were brown, or at least he wanted it to look that way, the blue tinted circles extending past his iris gave away that he was wearing contacts, which he guessed were colored as he noticed his pupils didn't visibly adjust to the change of lighting. His black hair was a little too shiny and didn't match his eyelashes, clearly covered with a layer of mascara. He couldn't see his eyebrows to confirm his suspicion, but as he subconsciously adjusted the wig the thin hairs on the back of his hand assured him that he was right.

"Well I know enough to find out who you are without much trouble." Sherlock hesitated a moment before seating himself next to the boy, yes boy seemed a more accurate word now, that was by no means the face of a man.

"Ah, yes. Well go ahead and tell me then. You must be dying to show off."

"Burning up the bodies in acid."

"Yes?"

"So you didn't want to be caught, at least not until now. Acid would be hard to come across for someone of your age, people would ask questions. So you kill anyone who did? Probably not, there wouldn't be much use or benefit to that, and what else could make someone as young as you kill? Are you eliminating people who have wronged you? Maybe, but more likely contract killings."

"So I'm too young to buy large amounts of acid without question, but not to be a contract killer?"

"You obviously didn't go to school, under the circumstances I don't see any reason not to." He shrugged.

"You're good. If you've got all that then you must know who I am."

"Yes, I've heard quite a bit about you. I like to do research on people like you, good to know their signatures before you go on a useless search for someone who only does the dirty work. By the way, you're younger than I thought."

"Thank you, but my most recent ones don't have my signature."

"Yeah, but you're easy enough to recognize."

The assassin sighed. "The wig didn't help at all?"

"Well your skin was enough, and your eyes are a big giveaway. Maybe you should try sunglasses last time."

"Wouldn't work on you." He shrugged, pulling down the hood and taking off the wig. His white hair stuck to his head until he scratched it, which left it sticking up in every direction. "Damn thing itches anyway."

"So, Ghost."

Ghost frowned, eyebrows knitting together. "I have a real name, thank you very much."

Sherlock nodded, eyes narrowed. "As far as records are concerned you don't even exist so forgive me if there are gaps in my knowledge." It wasn't sincere but he felt the need to defend his pride, if only a little.

"What can I say, keeping a low profile is important to me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How did you do it? No birth records, no anything. Not any hint that you've ever been anywhere or done anything."

"Well there wouldn't be, would there?" He waited expectantly, but when he got no look of understanding he sighed. "I was an experiment. A test tube baby if you will, they were trying to cure genetic diseases or something by ensuring that me and my fellow tests had the genetic diseases and then attempting to cure them. Obviously I wasn't a successful test." He gestured to his hair, before removing the contacts in the middle of the conversation. he tossed them aside in disgust and looked back to the dark haired man with his red eyes. "They were supposed to dispose of all the failures, but the project was going broke so the scientist running it gave me away for a nice price. I was the best candidate of course, not one of the little ones that would have any real issues, and besides I was a pretty healthy baby. Anyway, so I was purchased by a man who you know quite well." A wicked smile stretched across his face. "Brown air brown eyes, made you trow yourself off a building. I'll admit he had his problems, but he was a good enough father, trained me in the art of killing from a very young age.

"I had quite the gift for it really, albino eyes are very sensitive to light you know, so I could sneak around places where others would be fumbling around blindly. When I was twelve I officially became a contract killer, with the false name of ghost because of course I look pale enough to be dead and because I can sneak in almost anywhere, kill, and be gone in no time, and of course because there's never a trace left of the bodies. " He smiled. "I do a good job, don't I? Except right now I guess."

"I suppose so. Now that all that's been taken care of can you just tell me your name?"

"I must have gotten a little carried away there, my apologies. I'm called Damian. No surname."

"Of course."

Damian checked his watch and rolled his eyes. "Our time's almost gone and we've gotten absolutely nowhere. I assume you know why I invited you here. Jim always liked fairytales, and what's more fairytale than a son finishing what his father started? I mean to follow in his footsteps."

"So you plan to put a bullet through your head too?" Sherlock sneered.

The blood red eyes watched him closely. "Whatever it takes, I suppose."

"And what if I refuse to play your little game? What then?"

"Is that a refusal?"

"Yes."

Damian sighed, standing. "I had hoped for more willingness, but no matter. There are ways to make you play along. Be careful, Holmes." He pulled the hood back over his head, walking away until the shadows swallowed him up.


End file.
